


Selfish

by SofinaSand



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Angst, Crying, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Dean Winchester is So Done, Destiel - Freeform, Emotions, Feels, Hurt Dean Winchester, I guess this qualifies as AU now, Implied Relationships, Late Night Conversations, M/M, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, dean/cas - Freeform, maybe it's canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofinaSand/pseuds/SofinaSand
Summary: Dean knows about Cass's deal with the empty and he's really unhappy about it. Dean is tired. Dean is angsty. Dean is looking for a drink in the middle of the night. he gets his drink, and he also gets to confront Cass.Very, VERY, heavy shades of Destiel. It's pretty obvious even if it isn't explicit but then how is that different to the actual show? A lot of feels.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Selfish

**Author's Note:**

> I recently watched series 1 and 2 of Supernatural and I was shocked at how much the tone was different and what BABIES they were. I wanted to let Dean have his moment of rage at the universe and what he's been through. I also wanted him to have a moment with Cass.
> 
> I do not own characters etc. I also don't have a beta, but feedback is appreciated

Dean lay on his back staring at the ceiling, his arms folded across his chest. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't fall asleep. It was maddening because never had he been so exhausted in his life. Not just physically, but mentally. It never ended. The constant stream of disaster and chaos that made up their lives was in full flood. The fighting, the failure, the constantly being on the back foot as they waged war on cosmic entities. It was unrelenting. Every muscle fibre frayed from fighting for his life. There was a permanent low level throbbing in the front of his brain from lack of sleep and late-night research. And somewhere inside, the was a constant ache. A nagging reminder of all the loss that there had been. 

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes tightly. He could see them all, rising to the surface of his mind. Mom and Dad. Joe and Ellen. Bobby. Rowena and Crowley. Charlie. Adam. The familiar and ever-growing litany of names and faces. They all revisited him from time to time. sometimes in dreams. Sometimes in unsuspecting moments as he made a cup of coffee or picked up his keys. There would be an unexpected wave of grief that rose out of nowhere. And then came the guilt. The horrible, gnawing guilt that returned again and again: and spoke in a soft and dangerous voice:

_“Couldn't you have saved them?”_

He could feel the prickling of tears in the corners of his eyes. He inhaled deeply, willing himself to pull it together. He opened his arms and his eyes, lying cruciform across the bed. He blinked rapidly to dispel the remaining droplets from his eyelashes. There was no use in crying. No use in revisiting all the ways he could have saved those he had lost. He did that enough in his sleep. Night after night he saved them all. He would be faster, or smarter, or quicker with a gun. For a brief moment, he believed he had done it. That he had finally won. And then he would wake up. He would remember they were gone. And the familiar ache would return. 

He heaved himself from the bed. Swinging his legs over the edge and placing his feet on the cold floor, he buried his face in his hands and rubbed from his chin to his brow furiously as he tried to erase the creeping tiredness that pricked at the back of his eyes. He felt worn out. Burnt out. Old. There was a time when he could have 4 hours sleep on a broken sofa and still be up early in the morning for doughnuts and demon hunting. He could blast the music, hunt the monster, and save the girl before picking up a double cheeseburger, downing a beer and passing out before doing it all again the next day. There weren't cosmic consequences. The fabric of the universe didn't unravel because of his mistakes. It was just him, and Sammy, and the open road. He barely recognised that Dean. Had he ever been so young and naive? Had he ever been so joyful, carefree, and unmarked by the world? 

Unmarked. Dean shifted and rolled his shoulders to relieve some tension. Unconsciously he ran his hands over some of his scars. The lance mark on his arm from Kaia. The faint line in his chest from Metatron's blade. Finally, the raised handprint on his shoulder that Cass had left on him when he raised him from perdition. This scar he rubbed like a reflex. An annoying habit he had developed when trying to communicate - or more frequently failing to communicate - with Cass. As though touching the scar could get his attention in a way that prayer or a text message couldn’t. In the last few days since Castiel had told Dean about his deal, he had worried the mark more than usual. The scar had faded over time to lighter pink, but now the edges were inflamed and irritated. Much like Dean delt most of the time. 

_"Stupid. Stupid son of a bitch."_

How could Cas have done something so reckless? How could he have just thrown himself away like that?

He could almost hear the angel's response:

  
_“Time and time again I have seen you do the exact same thing. Would you have done anything different if it had been you? If it had been Sam's life on the line?”_

Dean groaned in frustration. He knew exactly where Cas had learned his kamikaze tactics from. How many times had Dean done something equally as stupid in the past?

But now? Could Dean honestly say he would do the same thing now? He liked to believe that he would. That he was the same man who laid his life on the line for those he loved. But somewhere within his mind, the soft and dangerous voice returned.

_“That was that old Dean. the purposeful, happy Dean. Who you are now. The things you’ve seen? What you know? You'd let Sam die if it meant bringing things to an end.”_

He crushed the voice down, refusing to listen to its dark insinuations. Rising from the bed in furious motion he crossed the room and wrenched open the door. He needed a drink. 

* * *

Dean padded down the hallway in the bunker, barefoot in his pyjamas. The lights were low and it looked as though everyone had retired to their rooms.

Dean hesitated outside Jack's room. He could hear the sound of some documentary playing. The kid barely slept and spent most of his nights on Netflix, binging as much human information as he could. He clenched his fist. An acrid, unpleasant taste rose in the back of his throat. He had tried so hard. He'd tried so hard to love that kid. He had tried so hard to love him in the way that Sam and Cass did. He'd tried until it had made him sick. But those instincts didn't seem to be there any longer. He had used all his nurturing up. All that love, compassion, and protection he'd mastered being the big brother, mother and father to Sammy no longer seemed to live within him. He was used up. Empty. 

Then he thought the thought he had been suppressing. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to trade Cass for Jack. He wouldn't trade a thousand Jacks and all their Chuck-smiting power for Cass. He could let Jack go to his death and he didn’t think he would bat an eyelid. A surge of anger coursed through him, but almost immediately it was replaced by a wave of shame and disgust. There was a time when he would never have thought such a thing. When he would have moved Heaven and Earth (and Hell to boot) to save both of them. Because that’s what he did. That's who he was. Then.

Now he was just so tired. 

Taking a steadying breath he continued down the hallway. As he approached Sam's room he could hear his brother talking. Judging by the slightly slow and emphatic way he was speaking about werewolves, Dean guessed Sam was on a video call with Eileen. He was probably signing as well. Dean smiled. Eileen was good for Sam. She was tough, smart, and understood the life. She didn't take shit and had a sense of humour. She also got the whole ‘been to hell’ thing. She wasn't a demon feeding him blood. She also wasn't a vet. And Sam seemed happy. Genuinely happy. Dean liked her a lot and he could see a future there for Sammy. You know - as long as they stopped the impending apocalypse. 

Dean decided to leave them with some privacy. He made his way down the hall to the bunker's central room. He found the bottle of whisky and picked up one of the crystal glasses. He poured himself a large glass and downed it in one. The whisky burned the back of his throat. It also did nothing to fill up the hollow feeling inside. So he poured himself another glass and downed it again. 

He poured himself a third glass. He thought it would probably be a good idea to go get something to line his stomach. Picking up the glass he turned towards the corridor that lead to the kitchen. The lights were out in this corridor. But Dean could see a soft light coming from one of the rooms further down. Curious he walked towards it. He didn't bother to turn the lights on, instead trailing a hand over the cool green tiles that lined the walls. There was almost complete silence down this end of the bunker. Dean peered around the door frame of the lit room. 

* * *

The room was lined with stacks of books. Cass had his back to the door, shoulders hunched, and was leaning over a short bookcase, presumably deep in research. His customary trench coat and suit jacket were neatly folded on the side. He was freakishly still and Dean noticed the air doing the weird static thing it sometimes did when Cass was around. When he was with Sam and Jack, or anyone else it got drowned out. But if you were quiet and alone, you could sometimes feel the celestial charge that Cass brought into the room with him. 

Dean felt a sudden surge of anger at the angel. He sipped his drink silently.

“Hello Dean.”

Cass didn't look up. Didn’t move from where he was reading the book so intently.

“What are you doing, Cass?”

“Researching.”

“What are you researching?”

“Apple pie.”

Dean scrunched up his face and made his way over “excuse me?”

“That was sarcasm, Dean," Cass responded flatly, still not looking up from the book. 

"Well at least you've learnt something from me. Gotta say, I was hoping you’d pick up some of my sweet style…” He patted the folded coat and jacket. Cass looked up with a confused expression, eyebrows knitted together. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. Cass had made some progress in human interactions since they'd first met but there was clearly a way to go…

_Not that he's got much time left…_

Dean pushed the thought down, and snatched the book from under Cass's nose.

“Dean,” the angel sighed resignedly. 

“Gimme that. Let me take a look."

The pages before Dean were covered in a series of swoops, swirls and shapes.

“I can't read this.”

“It’s Sanskrit.”

“I definitely can't read this then," Dean said shutting the book with a snap and tossing it to the side. Castiel sighed reproachfully and fixed Dean with a reprimanding look. Dean returned the look with a shit-eating grin and took a swig from his glass. 

“So. You’re hiding out here, burying yourself in research. Are you looking for a way to fight Chuck, or are you looking for a way to fight the Empty?” Castiel looked away, not making eye contact, staring at some invisible spot in the corner of the room, his face inscrutable. Dean swung himself around the shelves into Castiel's eye-line and gestured widely to deliver his point. "Either way it's for a fight you won't even be around for... Is that why you're hiding away? You feeling guilty about something? You feel like maybe you've made a reckless and stupid decision AGAIN…” Dean took a steadying breath, “… and you can't come talk to me about it? Me? After all this time?”

Castiel made no sign that he intended to respond to Dean's line of questions. His face remained impassive and he fixed Dean with one of his piercing stares that felt like an x-ray. It infuriated Den. He took another gulp of his drink and continued on.

“So tell me. When did this happen? Did you know when you walked out of the bunker and tried to leave? Did you know when we went to purgatory? Did you know you were on borrowed time even then? Did you know when I was on my knees in that place praying to you, spilling my guts that you were a dead man walking? After everything we went through. After I forgave you…”

"Dean,” Castiel interjected sternly, “That is unfair.”

“See now I don't think it is. I think what's unfair is that you're leaving, AGAIN. You're leaving, and you've made a decision all by yourself to do something stupid. And you thought that we wouldn't help you find a way out.” Dean’s voice got louder and louder. "That I wouldn't look for another way. That I wouldn’t move heaven and Earth to stop you having to do that. You accused me of being on a suicidal mission when all along you were doing the same god damn thing.”

“Why do you think I did it,” Cas growled, a nerve had clearly been touched. Something in the flash of his eyes hinted at the terrifying celestial force that lay behind the thin veneer of socially awkward salesman. “ Who do you think I learnt it from? You want to stand there and castigate me on my actions when everything I've learnt about doing the right thing comes from watching you. Seeing the lengths you’ll go to to protect the ones you love. So don't presume to lecture me on double standards." Cas paused and said in a lower more steady voice. “Everything I know about being a good man, I learnt from watching you.”

Dean swallowed and looked at the ground. "Well I don't know what to tell you, pal. I’m not a good man. Maybe I was once, but I'm not that man anymore.”

“Dean," Cas said with a lilt of concern in his voice, “You've always been a good man. You always try to protect your family. You are selfless and..”

“Yeah," Dean interrupted, he could feel a lump in his throat. “Well look at all the good it's done me. Look at all the rewards I've reaped from being a good man. Nothing but pain, and loss, and everything I touch turning to ash.”

There were prickles of heat behind Dean's eyes. He was so tired and through with all the fighting. Cas held him under an unwavering stare that made Dean feel as though the angel was peering straight into his mind, and he didn't have the energy to beat his friend down anymore.

“Did you think about us? Sam and me. Did you think about us when you were making your deal? Did you not think of asking us for help?”

Cass tilted his head. His voice remained firm, but Dean could hear his tone was softened. “You were so angry with me Dean. So Angry. You weren't listening to me. And we need Jack. He's the only one who can..."

Dean waved his hand, cutting Castiel off. He didn't want to hear it. He bore too much resentment towards Jack for everything that happened. It infuriated him that the kid was the only potential weapon they had against Chuck. The burning, acidic anger towards the boy rose again in the back of Dean's throat and he had to turn away from Castiel’s searing gaze in the hope he couldn't read the hatred in his face. 

“Dean," Cass pressed on, “We have to stop the apocalypse.”

Dean stared into the dregs of liquid in his glass. He rotated the glass slowly in his hands, peering through the brown liquid, as if trying to divine the future. "And let's say we stop the apocalypse. Again. What then?”. He turned to face Cass and shrugged. Cass looked back at him confused.

“I mean say we go head to head with God himself. Even if we stop it, do you think it's likely we're going to get out of that alive? Especially if you're not there to help…And if we don't where will we go. Heaven? Will it still exist if we beat God? Even if it does do you think I'd want to be stuck up there on a cloud surrounded by whatever winged dickbags may remain if…"

At this Dean's voice hitched in his throat. He swallowed to try and brink himself back from the edge of breaking down, “if you're not there?.”

Cass’s face softened, as did his voice, “Dean…"

The prickling behind Dean's eyes got worse.“Because honestly man, you're the only one of those feathered sons of bitches I can stand. And I can't see any point to spending the rest of eternity in Heaven, if you're not there too.”

Dean could feel the bottom of his vision starting to swim. Cass's head was tilted to the side again and he was wearing his concerned face. It made the tears pool faster in Dean's eyes.

“Of course it could go the other way. Maybe after all I've done I’ll be sent back downstairs.” Dean gave Cass a wan grin. “Guess if you're giving yourself to the Empty, I can’t be expecting anyone to wing their way down and raise me from perdition.” Even though he was trying to smile he could feel his bottom lip start to tremble. “I think I will though, y’know? Still hope someone," at this he gesticulated in Cass's direction with his near-empty glass, “will be busting their way in to come and get me. I can hope right?” The expression on the angel's face was incredibly - gentle. he looked so concerned it made it hard for Dean to look him in the eye

“Do you really think you won't make it through?” Cass asked in a very soft voice. 

“Well I gotta say the odds are stacked against us. And I'm guessing that as we're up against Chuck, and we're no longer his favourites, that my chances of popping back up again are pretty slim.”

Dean drained the rest of his glass. “And even if I did make it through…” Dean paused, musing on the possibility. “Well - what am I gonna do? In my 40s, high school drop out, second-hand car, no house, no kids. My two longest relationships are my baby brother and a suicidal angel who's halfway out the door. Only thing I'm good at is ganking monsters and stopping apocalypses. Apocalpyti?”

Dean considered his empty glass. The alcohol was taking effect. “I can't believe I need to know the plural of apocalypse,” he murmured. He blinked, shook his head and resumed: 

“Now Sammy. He could do it. He's always been the one who would do it. He always wanted to have that other kind of life. Hell, I don't doubt that if I hadn't been dragging him all over the country, and if - y’know - cosmic entities didn't keep trying to kill us... well I daresay he’d have gone back to school and would be a hotshot lawyer by now.”

There was a pleasantly warm feeling inside him now. He smiled up at Cass.

“I can see it - y’know. Nice house. Nice car. Nice wife. 3 kids - he'd want 3. He'd be taking them to after-school art clubs and karate. He'd have a home office so he could work from home whenever possible and be near the family. They'd get a dog. Not a small stupid dog, a proper dog. Size of a small horse. 'Cos even when they're small those kids will be big like him. He'd work hard but they'd have BBQs on the weekend and invite the neighbours over. And maybe he'd have to go out and put down a monster - but only local stuff. Never away overnight. And Eileen would get it - she knows the life. She'd understand. Hell. Maybe they’d make it their date night. And Jack could stay with them. Sammy loves that kid and he could be raised in a proper home and feel like he belongs.”

Dean smiled to himself. "And maybe on Thanksgiving and Christmas there could be a space for the no-good uncle. Y’know I could turn up, dole out some cheap presents, teach the kids some bad words, have a slice of pie and then be gone…”

“… but I don't think it could be my life," he continued with a crack in his voice, “'cos God knows I don't think I've got it in me to settle down like that. No matter how tired I am. No matter how much I want to throw in the towel. No matter how sick I am of long drives, crappy diner food, and no money... I just don't got it in me. I’ve never known anything but this life. I was made for this life. Dad built me for this. I’m a grunt. If I don't go down fighting, well then I'll just keep looking for another fight cos I don't know any other way to be."

Dean sniffed. Tears had escaped his lashes. Cass stepped towards him, which made him jump. He tried to wipe the rivulets of tears on his cheeks away. 

"But sometimes I think - haven't I done enough? Didn’t I do enough? I raised Sammy. I kept him safe until now. I saved the world again and again. Haven't I done my duty? Don't I deserve some peace? All this world has done is take and take from me. I think about the day I went to get Sam from college and I don't even recognise myself. The boy I was... I got nothing left to give this world. I’ve got no more love in me to give someone else to make 'em want to stay with me…”

At this Dean's voice cracked and he set down the glass and buried his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes furiously. He tried taking some deep steadying breaths. He didn't hear Cass approach. The angel could move almost silently when he wanted to. But he felt his hand. It was laid right over the handprint the angel had left on his shoulder all those years ago. It felt like an electric shock, but also comforted him. 

He looked up at Cass with red-rimmed eyes. Cass pulled him into a hug. Cass was funny like that. He still wasn't the best at knowing when or how hard to hug someone, and was often caught out by attempts at physical contact. but when he hugged it was almost crushing. Also, Dean was quietly pleased that, whilst he may have struggled with the rest of the world, Cass never hesitated to give him a full-body, all-encompassing embrace. He didn't let go either. Sometimes Dean would have to extract himself for the sake of social decency, but right now no one else was around so he leant into the angel, hiccoughing like a snot-nosed kid, burying his face in Cass’s shoulder that smelled like plain, clean, soap and something like the metallic smell in the air during a summer thunderstorm.

He finally regained control of his sobs enough to say in a ragged breath: “I thought you’d be there though. Isn't that what you said? Everyone I knew, everyone I'd ever loved could be dead. Everyone except you?”

Cass pulled back and stared at Dean, one hand still gripping his shoulder. Dean felt himself wilt a little under the stare and because of the sudden loss of contact.

“‘’Cos I figured, even if I was still wandering all over the country - you’d come with. Once Sammy's settled, you're all I'd have left. Profound bond n'all. I thought you'd not wanna go back to Heaven and I ain’t got nowhere to be but on the road. With Sammy tending his white picket fence, you could even ride shotgun. We'd just carry on.”

Cass remained silent but a pained look was spread nakedly across his features. It made somewhere in the region of Dean's sternum feel like it was caving in. The whiskey was well into his blood now, and combined with the exhaustion and dire circumstance he felt a little like his knees were going to give way.

“And I don't want to be mad at you, man. I don't want to fight. But how could you throw yourself away like this? I don't wanna lose you again. When you died last time - I couldn't get past it. I couldn't forget it and I don't think I can do it again. And I should never have let you walk out the bunker…” Tears were properly running down his cheeks now, but he continued, “ You say I'm a good man and I’m selfless, well you’re wrong because I want you live, and that’s selfish. I know the world is better with you in it. I know you could do great things. But when I say I want you to live, it's because I want it. I want you to stay here. I need you to stay. Please. Stay with me…”

Cass reached up and smudged the tears off Dean’s face before taking it in his hands. His own eyes were dark and fathomless.

"Dean…”


End file.
